by Robert Crais
I parked in the carport, and carried the groceries into the kitchen. The cat was sitting by his bowl. Sullen.
I said, “Give me a minute, okay?”
He stared at the floor.
I put the chops in the fridge, and found the remains of a roast chicken. I took out the chicken and a bottle of Pacífico. The cat dish was crusted with the remains of breakfast, so I set out a clean dish.
I said, “Beer or chicken?”
His nose worked.
I sat on the floor with the beer and the chicken, and poured a little beer. He watched the foam, then lowered his nose, and lapped.
“Not too much. You might have to drive.”
When you live with a cat, you talk to the cat.
When he finished the beer he looked at me.
I tore off bits of the chicken, and put them in his dish.
“Hess is coming. Knock off all the growling and hissing, okay? It gets old.”
I drank some beer, then got up and went out onto my deck. The thick-cut chops screamed for the grill, so I scraped the grate and set fresh charcoal. When the grill was ready, I showered, put on fresh clothes, and went to work in the kitchen.
I trimmed the chops, then smashed some garlic and chopped fresh rosemary. I put the garlic and rosemary in a bowl, and mixed it with olive oil, salt, and pepper, until I had a nice paste. Fragrant. I added a squeeze of lemon juice. Better.
I glanced at the cat.
“What do you think, mint?”
He didn’t look up from the chicken.
“Just kidding. We don’t have mint.”
I slathered the chops with the paste, wrapped them in plastic, and set them aside. I found some veggies in the fridge, and went to work on an eggplant. I cut it into lengthwise steaks, brushed both sides with olive oil, hit it with salt, pepper, and garlic powder, then panned the steaks, and shoved them into the oven. Low.
I smirked at the cat.
“Am I amazing or what?”
He gakked up a hairball and the chicken, blinked, and left. He could be difficult.
I cleaned his mess, then went outside and fired the coal. The flames were rising nicely when Hess called.
I said, “Hey! We’re having veal.”
She hesitated for half a heartbeat.
“I am so sorry.”
Her tone told me everything.
“What’s up?”
“TSA issue. I am so sorry, babe. One of those deals.”
Hess was the SAC. The top-of-the-ATF-food-chain boss of her bureau in the SoCal region. When the SAC’s phone rang, she had to answer.
“No problem. Don’t sweat it.”
I tried to sound cheerier than I felt.
“You know I sweat it. I hate when this happens.”
“I’m fine, Janet. Really.”
“Believe me, I’d rather be eating your veal.”
“I’ve got plenty you can eat.”
Hess giggled. She was a tough-as-nails, hard-core ATF agent, but she could still giggle. I liked that about her.
She said, “How’d it work out with your underage girl?”
“Smokin’.”
She didn’t get it, but no reason she should.
“Gotta go. Kiss.”
“Kiss.”
I finished the beer, opened another, and wandered out to the deck. Purple shadows were filling the canyon below, and the sky was a deepening blue. The coals were an angry bright orange. Too hot for the chops, but they’d cool.
I checked the time, and thought about Devon and Tyson. I wondered if Devon had confronted him, or if she’d gotten cold feet, and needed to work up her nerve. Maybe it was already over and they’d live happily ever after, or maybe she chickened out, and was putting it off until tomorrow. I felt bad for her. Being a parent wasn’t easy.
I went inside for the chops, scraped the excess paste, and put the chops on the grill. The sound of the sear when they hit the heat was perfect.
The cat came to the door and blinked at me.
“How’s the tum?”
He walked to the edge of the deck, and stared at something I could not see.
I flipped the chops, went in for the eggplant, and brought the eggplant out.
I liked kids, and thought I’d make a pretty good father, but I didn’t have children. I liked the idea of having a child with someone special, but finding someone special had proven elusive. I came close with a woman named Lucy Chenier, who had a son named Ben. They lived in Louisiana when we fell in love, and moved to Los Angeles to be near me, but Lucy’s ex did terrible things to punish her, and by the time it was over the harm was done. Lucy and Ben returned to Louisiana. Safer, she said. A place he can heal.
Okay.
I loved Ben like a son, and I missed him. We stayed in touch. I wish I had killed his father.
I moved the chops to a cooler place, added the eggplant, and drank more beer. Tyson’s father left before he was born.
What an asshole.
I poked a chop. You can tell the doneness by the give in the meat. Felt like medium. Perfect. I put the chops on a plate.
I didn’t know my father. Never met the man, and knew nothing about him. My mother never told me his name, and may not have known, so it’s possible he never knew she was pregnant. She was like that. I tried to find him a few times, but after a while my interest waned.
When I imagined myself as a father, my imaginary child’s gender didn’t matter. I would build Lego castles and play with dolls, read Goodnight Moon at bedtime, and stand in lines at Disneyland. Boy or girl, I would teach them to cook. We would hike in Runyon Canyon, make silly faces, and watch horror movies. I would worry when my son got his driver’s license, and glare at boys who dated my daughter, and cry when their hearts were broken. I guess I imagined myself as the father I would have wanted. I thought about Devon. Being a parent was difficult.
The cat came over and licked his lips.
“Almost.”
The eggplant was crisping at the edges, and showed nice grill marks. I put the eggplant on the plate with the chops, grabbed a knife and fork, and sat on the deck.
The cat came closer, and sat beside me.
I sliced off a piece of veal, cut it into smaller pieces, and held out a piece. He touched his nose to the piece, licked, and took the bit of meat from my fingers as gently as a kiss.
I didn’t have kids. I had a cat.
8
HARVEY AND STEMMS
PAUL THE BARTENDER knew Alec Rickey from a workshop production in Toluca Lake. Paul had played Slim, a cowboy from Wyoming who wanted to be a stuntman, but ended up being a movie star. Alec understudied the role of Lewis, a wannabe actor who ran errands for a coke fiend who made slasher flicks. Only problem was, the ham who played Lewis never missed a performance, so Alec quit, and took a gig waiting tables at Brasserie Le Jean in Sherman Oaks. Listening to all this bullshit gave Harvey a headache, but at least they learned where to find Alec.
Harvey and Stemms parked across from Le Jean at seven forty-one. They didn’t know if Rickey was working that night, so Harvey went in. He returned a few minutes later, and hit Stemms with the grin.
“It’s him. Over and out.”
“You sure?”
“No doubt. Alec.”
Harvey tapped his chest.
“Has a name tag. Tall, good-looking, the dimples. Looks like his DMV photo.”
Stemms eyeballed the restaurant. They were close, and he wanted to end it.
“How many diners?”
“Full house. Mostly older.”
Stemms decided to see for himself. A valet seated on a folding chair by the entrance jumped up and opened the door.
The restaurant was dark, and tables were shoehorned together. A hall leading to the kitchen and restrooms passed a bar at
the back of the room. Waiters and busboys flowed in and out of the kitchen, and walked on tightropes between the tables. Stemms didn’t see anyone who looked like Rickey.
A small man with a trim mustache greeted him.
“Did you have a reservation, sir?”
“I’m meeting a friend. Mind if I peek at a menu?”
A menu appeared in the man’s hand, but he gave an officious sniff.
“With no reservation, the wait will be at least thirty minutes.”
“I understand. Thanks.”
Prick.
A tall, thin kid carried an oval tray out of the kitchen. A middle-aged waiter set up a folding stand next to a table, and the kid placed the tray on the stand. After the salads were served, the kid took the tray and the stand back to the kitchen.
Stemms handed the menu to the man with the mustache.
“I’ll phone ahead next time. Thanks.”
Stemms returned to the car.
“It’s him.”
“You couldn’t trust me?”
“Harvey, stop.”
“Let me ask you a question. Why is this kid lugging trays?”
“I’m begging you, Harvey.”
“These kids are taking good scores. What’s the gross, three-point-two, three-point-three million?”
“Maybe he likes the job.”
“Bullshit.”
Stemms started the Chrysler, and circled the block. A long, poorly lit alley ran behind the restaurant, stretching from one residential cross street to the next. They cruised past the restaurant, rounded the block, and parked in the alley behind a knitting shop. They settled in, and watched the restaurant’s back door.
Every ten or fifteen minutes, a kitchen worker came out to grab a smoke. Stemms and Harvey watched the smokers in silence. They had watched people and buildings for countless hours together, and neither had much left to say.
The restaurant staff began leaving at ten-thirty. Two men with knapsacks came out, walked to the far end of the alley, and turned toward Ventura.
Harvey said, “Bus riders.”
Stemms started the Chrysler, but left it dark.
A singleton came next, followed by two more guys, and a woman. Alec Rickey appeared at eleven-oh-five, but he wasn’t alone.
Harvey said, “Couldn’t be easy.”
Rickey was with two blonde women. Stemms had seen one of the women behind the bar.
“Relax. They’ll split up.”
The taller blonde lit a cigarette, and they stood around yukking it up before they finally headed toward the street.
Harvey said, “Ten bucks, left or right.”
“Left.”
When they reached the end of the alley, Rickey and the women turned left.
Harvey said, “Shit.”
“Get out, Harvey. Go.”
Harvey got out, and hurried after them. Stemms waited until Harvey was gone, then idled forward. His phone rang when he reached the end of the alley.
Harvey’s voice was a whisper.
“Left, then left again at the stop sign. Park on the right. Slow.”
Stemms guided the Chrysler through a lace of moonshadows cast by jacaranda trees. A car came toward him, and flashed its lights, signaling his were off. He turned on his lights, but killed them as the car passed.
Harvey said, “They’re in the street, halfway down. I’m to the right, on the sidewalk. Wait, hang on—”
Stemms turned at the stop sign, and pulled to the right.
“Say something, Harvey. I don’t see you.”
“They stopped. Hang on—”
An alarm chirped a block ahead as a car unlocked.
Harvey whispered, “That’s him. Back up, Stemms. Turn around. He’s coming toward you.”
Stemms backed around the corner and into a driveway. Six seconds later, Harvey jumped in as headlights approached.
“This is him. Easy, now.”
A black two-door Nissan rolled through the stop sign, and turned toward Ventura.
Stemms counted to ten, then snapped on his lights, and followed.
“Are the women with him?”
“Uh-uh. He’s alone.”
They followed the Nissan along Ventura through Sherman Oaks and into Studio City. Stemms hoped Rickey was going home, but the kid drifted along like he had nowhere to go. Traffic wasn’t bad, but when they reached Sushi Row, cars crowded together like salmon chasing toro and uni. The Nissan slowed at one restaurant, then another, then a third, as if Rickey couldn’t decide where to eat.
Stemms jumped lights to stay close.
Harvey said, “This kid is pissing me off.”
Two cars ahead, the Nissan edged into the center lane, and stopped. Rickey got out of his car in the middle of traffic, and studied the cars behind him.
Stemms said, “Damnit, Harvey, he made us. He saw you.”
“Uh-uh. No way.”
The kid looked nervous, but his eyes skipped over the Chrysler without recognition. Horns blared, so Stemms leaned on the Chrysler’s horn.
“Look at him. He’s freaked.”
“Maybe one of his friends got popped. Maybe they called. We’re not the only people after these turds.”
Rickey stared over their heads a few more seconds, then climbed into his car, and traffic bumped forward.
“Harvey. I got a feeling.”
“I’m on it.”
The Nissan swung hard across the oncoming lanes into a parking lot, and gunned for an exit. Brakes screeched and more horns screamed. Stemms jerked the Chrysler across the lanes, punched through the parking lot, and swerved out the other side. Harvey leaned forward, searching for Rickey’s car.
“Got him. The freeway.”
Once they had eyes on the Nissan, Stemms backed off.
The kid settled down once he was on the freeway, as if he felt safe in the stream of red lights. They trailed him down into Hollywood. Stemms hoped the little shit was going to meet his friends, but Rickey didn’t stop. He made a slow, meandering pass through Hollywood, and drifted back to the freeway.
Stemms glanced at Harvey.
“What do you think?”
Harvey shrugged.
“What I said. Something happened. He’s probably trying to figure out what to do.”
Stemms agreed.
“Yeah. You’re probably right.”
“I’m always right.”
Traffic thinned as they headed downtown. This made it easier to keep the Nissan in sight, but forced Stemms to drop farther back.
They cruised across the top of DTLA, crossed the Los Angeles River, and followed Rickey north toward the mountains through rolling dark hills. The distance between them grew.
Harvey leaned forward again.
“He’s speeding up, dude.”
Stemms drove faster.
The gap closed, then opened again.
“C’mon, Stemms. He’s running.”
They chased the little black car through a tunnel of light surrounded by darkness. The city became a background, as if they were racing to the end of the world. Stemms liked it. The traffic was behind them. They flashed past leviathan trucks, as if the trucks were sleeping behemoths.
Alec Rickey raced past a truck on the inside lane, vanished ahead of the truck, then dove crazy-fast across the freeway toward an exit.
Stemms braked hard, but didn’t think they would make it. The ramp dropped off the freeway hard, and the big Chrysler shouldered into the curve. The curve grew tighter, and Stemms braced for a crash, but the Chrysler shouldered lower, hung on, and slowed. Then Stemms saw the Nissan, and Stemms let the Chrysler roll to a stop.
The Nissan lay on its roof in a cloud of swirling dust on the far side of the guardrail. Alec Rickey had lost control, spun, and pinwheeled o
ver the rail.
Harvey threw open the door.
“Get off the ramp. Go.”
Harvey vaulted the rail, and ran to Rickey’s car.
Stemms drifted to the bottom of the ramp and parked on the shoulder. He turned off his lights and studied their surroundings. Deserted.
Stemms got out, and walked up the embankment. Alec Rickey was alive, but hurt. Harvey had dragged him from the upside-down car, and gone back to search the interior. Harvey’s legs stuck out from the driver’s-side window like a couple of twitching pipe cleaners. The smell of gasoline was strong.
Stemms said, “Find anything?”
“He’s all messed up, damnit. He can’t talk.”
“Get the keys.”
Stemms walked over to Rickey. The kid’s chest appeared crushed, and his left arm was shattered. His face was bloody and swelling. He tried to say something, but only managed a bubble.
Stemms said, “Thank God for air bags, right?”
Rickey tried to speak again, but his jaw made a weird sideways move like a bug’s mandible.
Stemms pulled on vinyl gloves and felt the kid’s neck. Rickey’s pulse was thready and fast, which wasn’t so great, but his pupils were the same size, and dilated normally. The sclera were bright red. If the kid died, the red would turn black, and his eyes would look like a couple of eight balls.
“Alec? What’s up, Alec, you hear me?”
The kid made eye contact, and moaned. The pain was burning through the adrenaline.
“Who are your friends, Alec? Tell me, and I’ll call the paramedics.”
The boy’s jaw twisted. He moaned even louder.
Stemms searched him, and found a slim wallet holding a California DL issued to Alexander Dean Rickey. Stemms noted the address, and slipped the wallet into his pocket.
Stemms called toward Harvey.
“Key?”
“Here.”
Harvey’s hand emerged with the key.
Stemms popped the trunk, but found nothing useful. He returned to the boy, and squatted beside him.
“Work with me, Alec. If you want to live, you have to help me.”
